Boreal Witch

I love my mom, I really do. But at the same time, I hate my mom with a blinding passion. She's made many mistakes (I won't go into them now), but these situations she's found herself in make it very difficult for me to trust her. 

I also realize, however, that despite all the flaws in my parents' marriage, they've been together for a long time. They obviously care for one another, even if the love is gone. This much was made clear last night when my mom started getting teary-eyed talking about Dad's condition on her way out the door. Blythe and I stood there, listening to her babble and at that moment, instead of feeling cold rage, I reached out to her. I smoothed out her hair. I reassured her that we were all worried about Dad and that we'd all be there for him - and her. I hope she left feeling better.

It's taken me a long time to get to this point - to be able to begin to forgive. I readily admit I'm not quite there yet (I'm still constantly sorting my feelings and there's still a great deal I'm angry about), but during our marathon Gab Fest, Blythe revealed that she felt the same way. She loved Mom, but she harbored a dislike for her, too. She didn't like her constant criticism of Dad. She thought Mom's tears last night were disingenuous and was surprised I'd been able to reach out to her at all. There was a part of me that was surprised, too. 

If there's one thing I've learned from my dad's illness, it's that we don't have enough time for grudges. We don't have enough time to hold onto the anger and the frustration we feel toward other people. They are going to do whatever they want to do - we can express our displeasure, but we have absolutely no control. We do, however, have control over ourselves. We can be the bigger person. We can start to forgive people when they don't know any better. With the Christmas fiasco out of the way (I hate Christmas so, so much and my hatred of the holiday often clouds logic) and being in the middle of family again, I feel as though I am able to understand what's happening, one step at a time. I'm not ready to make a giant leap, but I am trying to at least be sympathetic to Mom, even if I have trouble empathizing with her. 

"You're the overachiever in the family," my dad said tonight with a smile, a mixture of pride and humor so characteristic of him. We'd just finished his 2017 taxes and were searching for two Amazon book orders. One he had found easily. The other was lost in the piles of stuff. 

I had asked him which bookshelves would most likely hold the missing book. Dad pointed to a few: one downstairs, one in his bedroom, one in the kitchen. The problem, he explained, was that he didn't note where the book was located in the description - a notation he does to more recent acquisitions because he has so many books in his "collection". 

He's right, though. I am an overachiever. I always have been. When there's a job to do, I will work on it until it is finished. And particularly if this job is for other people. 

My sisters are going to hate me when we have to clean out Mom and Dad's house. I will tear this house apart, I will categorize stuff, I will clean out cabinets until their stuff is gone because the sooner the stuff goes, the sooner we can gut the house and redo it. I know there's already a fair amount of work that will go into it before we can sell. It's either that or we sell with remodeling in mind which means it will have to go for cheap. 

Either way, the clutter has to go. I've already got categories in mind. There's the stuff we can donate (blankets/sheets, towels, new toiletries, food). There's the stuff we can sell at a steep discount (Christmas junk, baskets, games, pet stuff). There's the stuff that we can sell cheap to college kids (furniture, electronics, pots and pans). There will be the family stuff which will be sorted and divided among us (dishes). 

The whole time, I will be sad and crying on the inside, but on the outside I will be putting on a good face. I will be shouting directions and delegating and organizing. Because that's what an overachiever does. 

The worst part about leaving my family in Wisconsin is the three hour time difference. When they wake up, I'm still asleep. When they're having lunch, I've just finished breakfast. When I'm turning in for the night, they've been asleep for a few hours already. It's a challenge to find a time when we can talk that works for all of us. 

It's hard being so far away. There were times during the pandemic I felt mentally and emotionally drained with everyone around. I was always right there, dealing with whatever my family needed. I sunk low a number of times, exhausted. 

But despite all of my moods, I love my two crazy boys and my husband. Being up here means I'm not down there, witnessing all their day-to-day antics. While it's nice not getting dog piled or rushing from one activity to another (as being away makes me appreciate the slow and quiet even more), I miss the shouts of delight when they play in the backyard. I miss the dollops of Nutella on the counter. I miss the demands for hot chocolate or snacks during class time. I miss warm little bodies snuggling next to me on the couch as we read the latest Geronimo Stilton pick from the library. I miss catching up with my husband about his day during lunch. I miss laughing about ridiculous advice columns. I miss our morning walks. 

There's a lot of good about being a mother and wife, especially to boys as amazing as mine. I never forget how much my family depends on me because I'm doing so much everyday, but I do forget how much I depend on them. 

So now, tonight, from thousands of miles away, I hope they know I am thinking about them. 

I've inherited a great many things from my family: nose, face shape, height. My dad's love of travelling. My mom's love for interrupting. My grandmother's feisty attitude. All these little bits and pieces from all these people came together to form me. Nurture or nature, does it really matter which? 

With the results from my COVID test finally available (negative!), my sister and I brought our parents ice cream tonight. I had been warned about the leak downstairs. Again, I knew what to expect. But, again, just hearing about a situation doesn't prepare you for what's actually happened. 

It was the smell. It hit you like a moldy brick wall upon stepping into the house. 

"The floor's no longer wet!" Mom exclaimed. 

I smiled and nodded because, well, I know my parents and they will never, ever fix the problem. The leak will eventually get repaired and the carpet will turn crusty and dry under their feet, but they will never get an estimate for the damage or replace the flooring. It isn't a matter of not being able to afford it. They just won't. 

As much as it pains me to admit this, my parents are classic hoarders. They still have the bird cage up in the kitchen, empty. The parakeets died many months ago. Every surface in the kitchen is covered in used margarine containers, cutting boards, knives, tea, knick knacks...you name it, it's probably there. My dad's stacks of books - his primary income - and boxes of stamps - his boyhood hobby - have crowded out any available seating in the living, dining, and family rooms, while all of the extra bedrooms are filled with my mom's stuff. 

If it sounds like I'm getting down on my parents, I'm not. They both have their problems and hoarding feeds into it. They are comfortable in their disaster of a space and it has been this way ever since I was a child. I've had to unlearn so many bad habits (and still working on many more). Staying with them is...exhausting. It's the only polite way of putting it. 

But you can love a person and not like what they do. I love my parents, but I'll be damned if I'm going to destroy my mental (and at this point, physical) health staying with them. I will help my dad with taxes. I will take him to appointments. I will make them dinner. But I have to draw the line somewhere. The bad habits have to stop with me. 

Tonight Blythe and I repotted one of her ivy plants, a task that was sorely needed. She and Dustun had two from his father's funeral several years ago. They had survived up till this point when they had been overwatered. They took them out of their pots and let them drain, but sadly, one had died and the other was in bad shape. 

I am not an expert botanist (as I paid far too much attention to my orchids during quarantine - both could not be saved), but I agreed to help her resuscitate them as best as I was able. Mom had given her a bag of potting soil and a box of fertilizer spikes. Blythe dug out some old pots and we untangled and clipped the ivy, leaving them a little sad and naked in their new homes. 

These ivy weren't rare or fancy. Their leaves weren't medicinal. They didn't grow gems. So why such care? 

Like most of the women in my family, we assign emotions to objects. My sister associated these funeral plants with her husband's father who passed away six or seven years ago. She has fond memories of him and knows how much her husband loved him. These plants dying means an extension of him dies as well. 

"Why bother?" you might say. "Who cares about these plants? They have nothing to do with her husband's father. They're just plants." 

And yes, I agree - to a certain extent. They are just plants. But they are also the last physical representation of someone she cared about. And because of this, the plants deserve one more shot. This care that we sunk into them tonight begs the question: how far are you willing to go?

For now, the ivies will sit on a table near the sliding back doors. They will bask in the natural light with space to breathe. We will talk to them and encourage them to grow. We will water them once a week. Check on them daily. Perhaps they will bounce back, perhaps not, but it's the small actions, the ones that build up over time that make a huge difference. So, it's worth a shot to commit to breathing new life into something that gives you happiness, no matter how silly it seems to other people. 

How far will you go for the people and things you care about? 

My nephew is, for all intents and purposes, a grown-up. He turned 23 this year. He's matured into a good-natured person. He loves video games and Pokemon. He's always drawing funny pictures and coming up with off-the-wall characters. He dreams big. He's also on the autism spectrum. He's high-functioning, but he's had his fair share of "oops" moments. It happens to all of us, doesn't it?

He and I went on a long walk today. (Probably a little too long because when it was all over, he complained his legs hurt. An "oops" moment for me!) We talked about a range of things: our current builds in Terraria, favorite types of movies, Resident Evil and other horror video games, the DC vs the Marvel universes, eating (and not eating) meat. He wanted to know what video games his Uncle Robbie was playing right now and even made some suggestions of games we'd like. 

I feel we have, on the whole, a good relationship. I'm not here all the time so I don't know every little thing that goes on in his life. I don't have repeat conversations with him like my mom. I don't coddle him like his mom. I (hope) I don't disappoint him like his dad used to. He's not ever going to confide in me his deepest darkest secrets - I wouldn't expect him to - but I (hope) he is able to just talk to me. About whatever the hell he wants. And that I, being the amazing auntie I am, will listen. 

I think that's what all of us want. We want someone who will listen to us and acts as though they understand us (even if they really don't). Growing up, I was too terrified of my dad to really talk to him and I was annoyed by my mom's baby talk. My sisters, of course, were "too young" to possibly comprehend what I was going through. I felt that none of them understood me. (To be absolutely fair, they probably didn't understand the inner workings of a snotty teenage girl. To this day I thank the stars I going to be missing out on that little adventure.)

As Josh was describing his vision for a museum to house all of his cool armor and weapons and pets and what have you in Terraria, I realized that what I was doing for my nephew was the best thing I could be doing for my own boys. Listening and asking relevant questions. 

The funny thing is, he used to call me almost everyday until my sister's husband put a stop to it because he though I'd be bothered. Sometimes I was inconvenienced, but never bothered. I really could have used his calls last year. I don't think I would have felt quite so lonely if I had known there was someone who wanted to talk to me, too. 

If my parents had done this, had really done this in an unobtrusive, honest way, would I have a better relationship with them now? If they had asked me all those questions without the yelling or baby talk, would I have answered honestly and without hesitation? Would we be able to talk to each other comfortably? 

I want this for my boys. I want them to be able to come talk to me about anything, even if it's a palatial trap-filled building they've created for me in Minecraft. I know I am not always the easiest person to get along with. I know my personality can be difficult and abrasive. But I hope they can count on me to get them through those tough problems by listening. I'm not that great at it, but I'll be there for them, just like I'm there for Josh. 

Last night, we masked up and my parents came over for dinner. I made a pumpkin based beer and cheese soup, which tasted delicious but looked appalling because the cheese had separated. Mom and Dad brought some jalapeno cheese bread and my sister cut up some appetizers. During dinner, I sat in the kitchen while everyone else sat at the table. After dinner, the ladies brought out a puzzle. My nephew went out with friends and the guys lounged on the living room chairs watching historical documentaries and movies. 

It was a pleasant evening, but I couldn't help feeling I was the odd man out. Part of it was because I was still technically in quarantine and had to stay away from everyone, but I think a far bigger realization was that I felt like I was intruding on my own family. 

Dad had lost a lot of weight. I was prepared, of course. I had been told, but I wasn't prepared to see him look so...small. As far back as I can remember, my dad was always a big, stomping giant who left a trail of noise in his wake. Seeing him slowly (and quietly) bumble about is a little disconcerting. 

As the puzzle pieces snapped into place, Mom chatted with Blythe about Josh's new job and a host of other work related things. I asked questions here and there, but as the puzzle started taking shape, I felt more and more like I didn't belong. I felt like my time in Alaska was finally over, that there was no good reason to ever come back because I had finally moved on. 

This isn't to say I've moved on from my family or that I never want to see them again. Not at all. It simply means that I've been holding onto this ideal, this fondness for a place that holds no true meaning for me anymore. I hate the idea, I do, because I had always thought I'd be coming back someday. I don't think it's possible anymore. No one is more surprised than me. 

On the bright side, this opens up a range of new possibilities. I could live anywhere and that's an exciting prospect. I could see myself in Amsterdam, though I'd probably have to stay in the states if I was going to continue my series. Close enough to a big city, but far enough and quiet enough to research and write in peace. Maybe I'd say to hell with all of that and channel my inner romantic, build a tiny house on wheels, and drive around the country. That sounds like fun, too. 

We lie to ourselves when we say we have more time. I see the fallacy of it with my dad's illness. Perhaps that's the reason behind Quilting Weekends and the travelling around the world. Chances are, my dad never got to do 75% of the things he really wanted to do and now there's that possibility that he never will. I want my life to have meaning and purpose. Why would I want my life to end with regrets? 

It's funny how we tend to think life's going to zag one way and instead it zips an entirely other way. I had expected my nephew to hang out with me yesterday so we could work on a few of his unfinished projects, but he went out with friends, leaving me to have a pierogi party all by myself. (It's fine, really, as pierogies are so wonderful that I didn't want to share anyway.) I even made chocolate and apricot dessert pierogies out of the leftover dough. 

Blythe and I planned to watch Save the Last Dance and drink some wine. Maybe make some popcorn. We ended up consuming endless margaritas along with our small bowls of popcorn and dessert pierogies. (Those were freaking magical.) We, in fact, did those things, but we also managed to find Forensic Files 2, which I have been dying to see since it came out last year. The show itself had the same flavor as the original, but I prefer the soothing, drawling voice of Peter Thomas. The new guy narrates too quickly and reminds me of a used car salesman. 

We ate pumpkin chai muffins and took a walk this morning. No plans, just Blythe and I talking about getting older and food and exercise. When we got back, I caught up with the husband and the kids to see how their day was shaping up. (Turns out it was pretty exciting.) 

There's nothing witty or moving in this entry. Just the simple fact that we expect life to go one way, but it rarely ever does. We can plan for everything. It might help a little. When it comes down to it though, planning out every last detail is for suckers.

I won't lie, it's nice to be home again. There's a lot about Alaska I miss and Wisconsin just doesn't fill the gap. (But I've known that about Wisconsin for a long time now. I'm not destined to spend the rest of my life there. I just can't. But I digress. That's a story for another time.) 

There's nothing better than getting to see familiar faces at your destination. I'm thankful my sister and her husband felt comfortable enough to host me for a few days until I find out if I have COVID cooties. It's nice to spend some time with them before they go to Florida. It will be good to hang out with my grown-up nephew. And both my parents called me yesterday. I know they're chomping at the bit to see me. Especially Dad, but I think that's only because he really wants his backlog of taxes done. 

Blythe picked up Mom's sewing machine yesterday and I finished taking apart the quilt I started ages ago. Long story short, I wanted to make a Roman Road quilt with the blocks. They were slightly too long. Instead of cutting them down to the proper size, I started to sash the blocks which is way. More. Work. (Don't ask me, I really don't know what I was thinking.) So now, I've decided to go back to my original plan. The ends of the blocks will be cut off and resewn together. I brought some fabric to sash them. I just hope it will be enough. If not, I guess there's always time for a visit to a quilt store, right? (Yes, once my quarantine is over. I may not enjoy wearing a mask, but I'm not irresponsible.)

My nephew has a couple of projects he wants to get done, too. He has two patches that need to get sewn to a bag and a bag of pins that need to be displayed in a shadow box. And from some of the leftovers in the fridge, I'll teach him how to make ham and potato as well as cheese and potato pierogies for lunch. With whatever spare time there is to be found, we'll probably watch the fifth Sharknado movie and I'll sew more blocks together. We'll take a walk (maybe I'll get two!) and then I'll cook some Mexican soup and quesadillas for dinner. I'll talk to my family throughout the day and see how they're holding up. The boys have the day off of school today to mark the end of their second quarter. I hope they don't get into too much trouble...

Well, I made it to Alaska without any major complications. (Yet.)

The flight from Chicago to Seattle was practically empty. (The airport, too! I'd never seen O'Hare so quiet.) I had an entire row to myself. I was able to even get a quick nap in. The flight from Seattle to Anchorage, however, was crowded. There must have been three other flights leaving around the same time as mine. Not having been around so many people for so long certainly has benefits - I haven't been sick in a long time. 

Now that I'm here, of course, I'm still a bit jet lagged and tired. I have a bit of a headache and sinus pressure which I hope is from getting adjusted, not from catching a killer virus on a crowded plane. I drank some throat coat, took a walk today and I won't stay up so late tonight (I have a feeling my face will end up in tonight's plate of spaghetti if I'm not careful). I'm keeping my distance from everyone else in the house. So far, so good.   

This morning, I made my sister breakfast and we started talking about food and the new leftovers show on Netflix. I love nutrition with a passion and am always looking for recipes to try or new foods to experiment with. Since the beginning of the year, I've made a concerted effort to eat more mindfully, working in more fruits and veggies and using whole wheat flour instead of white in my baked goods. My opinions about food have certainly changed since I was a kid.

It was a mistake - I know that now - but I told her about the use of beaver butt (really a secretion from a gland, but my husband and I joking call it "beaver butt") in raspberry flavored foods. My sister thought I was making fun of her and my nephew thought the whole situation was hilarious. She googled it and discovered (horror of horrors!) it was true. I am afraid we can no longer discuss the subject of food because I will certainly ruin another favorite of hers and she's been such a gracious host so far. It simply wouldn't be right. It only stands to reason we'll need a new topic of conversation, and fast. I have at least four more days here, stuck inside. 

Goodbye, Beaver Butt. Hello...?  

NPR reported that 68% of Americans are pessimistic about the direction of our country. I'd say that's about accurate. I'm not pleased with the direction we're headed. (But why would you doubt that, Dear Reader, particularly with regards to a few of my previous posts?)

I used to think I was a happy-go-lucky optimist. I saw the bright side of most anything. At least, I thought I could. Now, however, I wonder if I had been mistaken, that somehow what I believed to be optimism was actually a subtle form of pessimism in the guise of a silver lining. Has it revealed itself because I am getting older? Is it because of a personality defect? Is it because of the state of our environment? Is it because I have children and I see my faults becoming apparent in them as they grown and mature?

Honestly, maybe my pessimism is based in a little of everything. Maybe as I've grown up, I've realized that there is no end in sight to our pollution and our plastic crisis and to climate change because big business won't change. Maybe I don't like the critical nature my boys both have because, in all fairness, I am the one who modeled it for them. Maybe I've realized that I've chosen honesty over kindness and in some instances I should just do the proper thing and be kind. Maybe, just maybe, most days I don't like the world and being pessimistic is a means for me to give a big F-YOU to everyone. 

Following the path I've been on is easier. I've already made the ruts. My wheels are stuck. Perhaps I should strive to get off this worn road and practice smiling and nodding instead, like Aaron Burr: "Talk less. Smile more." It would not be easy, but since when did I ever do anything easy?

The Yup'ik have a saying which is similar to "don't put off what you can do today tomorrow". My mental state has always been firmly planted in "it'll get done when it gets done" - until 2020. I'm beginning to see the value in doing a little bit here and a little bit there. Eventually, it all adds up.  

Now, Sundays are all about prep. Mental preparation for the week, grocery shopping and meal prep. Getting things done on Sunday is the only way I survive the week because if a meal isn't prepped then, I have to make it some other time. It's easier, far easier, to eke out an hour or two on Sunday. 

I've decided to bring some quilt scraps with me after all. Quilting Weekend was a success - I finished the 9-patch I started a couple weeks ago. I decided not to put the borders on yet; what if I find a beautiful backing fabric (on sale) at one of the many quilt stores in Anchorage? I would want something that coordinates. So that project will wait to be finished, really finished, until I get back. 

Last year, I decided I needed to go on a fabric freeze (with the exception of backing fabric - I never have enough large cuts). I had plenty of choices in my stash, I reasoned, to be able to use up some of the scraps that had been sitting for so long. I did quite well, actually. The only fabrics I did buy for my stash were a few half yards on my birthday at a lovely quilt shop in Shipshewana. (Happy birthday to me!) 

Then the pandemic happened and I found myself stressed, depressed, and spending all my free time playing video games. 

Long story short, I made two quilts last year, but often wished I felt more motivation to sew. It's fun to see a pattern come together and even more fun to see the stash diminish. Sewing makes me feel accomplished. 

This year, I've decided to continue my fabric freeze since I (still) have more than enough scraps and stash for fifty-plus quilts. (So much for good intentions, right?) 

To encourage a quick exit of the scraps, I've started to consciously dedicate my weekends to quilting - something I haven't done in a long time. My sewing room is covered by an explosion of fabrics. I'm currently working on three or four different quilts (this is normal, trust me) and trying hard to get rid of some of the triangle scraps I no longer have room for. Scrappy bear claws, I think, make the best design. Two sizes, a seven inch and a fourteen inch. Easy enough to put together. I'm eager to see how it turns out. 

Another current project is a scrappy 9-patch. I rarely make quilts with so much white. The picture of it here doesn't do it justice, but it's lovely, trust me. I have a second 9-patch in mind, black prints and white. A little more modern, minimal, dramatic. A gift for a friend. I hope she'll be able to have her wedding this year. It didn't happen last year because of COVID. 

I'll be gone in less than a week which means unless I bring scraps up to Alaska with me, Quilting Weekends will have to stop for a short while. Though I could use my mom's sewing machine, it's a matter of finding the time before I leave to prepare the sorted fabrics I'll be using. (Scrappy quilts are so much fun to look at but can be such a pain to make! Perhaps I need a better system for sorting triangles?) Helping my dad with various tasks will eat up most of my time, along with revising my second novel while I'm in quarantine when I first get there. There will be plenty to do. There always is.

But Quilting Weekends will still be here when I get back.

"This is so boring," my husband whispered. 

We were half way through the last episode of the first season of Bridgerton, a scandalous new show on Netflix based on the Victorian romances of Julia Quinn. 

My husband and I are semi-avid readers of the Romance genre; however, we read them to make fun of them, not for pleasure. All of these books are so repetitive and boring - a 300 page romance could be summed up in 75 pages, and that's pushing it - and almost all of them contain some "strong" heroine who isn't actually strong, but stubborn and dumb. She lacks common sense and it's a wonder she's made it this far in life without a basic understanding of relationships and (gasp!) sex. The hero is no better, for he's always a rake with a heart of gold and he's always tall and muscular, with penetrating blue eyes (that match his uniform) and luxurious hair. He's a wild horse that can't be tamed - until he meets the heroine. 

The problem with matches in every romance is that the couple never talks to each other. They lack the necessary communication skills required in a relationship which leads to misunderstanding after misunderstanding. 

We've read the book and now we've finished the show and I'm sorry to say, the show is not much better. 

The show started out enjoyable enough. The couple meets. They devise a plan that works in their mutual favors. They become friends who actually enjoy talking to each other. Then, of course, things get out of hand when they actually do begin to fall for each other. So far, so good.

Then they have to get married and from there on out, it's a constant game of hot and cold. By the end of the season, however, the show fast forwards at the blink of an eye to the future - wait, what? - and everything seems okay between them - wait, what??? - and then a few other important plot lines shrouded in mystery are revealed - wait, what????? 

It's my constant gripe. Why are there no good romances? Is it that hard to write about a man and a woman falling in love? Why is the woman always soft and unworldly and why is the guy always a rake? Even books which you'd think sound AMAZING end up being some trash novel with very little interesting content. (I'm looking at you, Civil War Spy Romance.)

Perhaps this is the reason we ended up putting down the romances for a little while. There's no point in reading the same thing over and over again. 

I am not a kind person. I am often rude. I am brash. I am judgmental. I have no filter. I tend to say what's on my mind without regard for the social situation I am in. Despite this, I am a good person. I am honest. I give money to worthy causes (and unworthy ones, from time to time). I volunteer as an English tutor. I try my best to live a low-impact lifestyle. 

I know this about me. I have never denied this aspect of myself. This is who I am. It's who I will (probably) always be.

This last Yule, however, I decided to work on being less judgmental. I wanted to talk less and listen more. I had good intentions - the best, in fact - but, as is the way of resolutions, it's been broken. Yes, so soon. 

I won't go into the details. All I will say is that my father-in-law's second wife and I had an exchange over Facebook and it wasn't pretty. We have different views politically. I'm sure we don't share the same opinions in many other areas of our lives. Last night, though, as I was sitting in the library with the two people I tutor, telling them about my upcoming trip to Alaska and discussing our own families' health challenges, I realized if I wanted to actually live my Yuletide Resolution, I had to change my perception of myself. Perhaps I'm not brash, but passionate. Maybe I'm not rude, but (a little too) eager to jump into a conversation. Perhaps I don't have a filter because I think I am being honest. 

Think about it: if I could redirect all of these negative qualities about myself into positive ones, maybe I could become a kind person. 

Keeping this in mind, two things happened to me today; the first I was not expecting, the second I had orchestrated on my own.

I always take my boys to the library Wednesday morning. They don't have school (because of the pandemic, our school district has chosen to teach online), so it's a good way to get out of the house and find something new to read. 

A woman in a white car parked next to me. She had her window down, trying to get my attention. When she had it, tears spilled down her face as she spilled her story. She was living off her savings and trying to find a job. She needed money for her phone bill. She had tried to make some calls in the library to check the status of her applications, but the librarians had asked her to leave. It was obvious she was barely holding it together. 

I've had my fair share of dark days during this pandemic, but it's been harder on so many others. I have a place to live and food to eat. My husband has a good job. My boys are doing well in school. We have internet at home. We are lucky. We have the necessities. We're doing okay. 

I gave her some money. I always do when I talk to the homeless or someone down on their luck. I consider it an exchange for their story because I never know when I could use a good story. After snatching up the crisp bills, she drove off. I hadn't expected to ever see her again.

My boys and I checked out our books, then went to the candy store downtown to buy some gummies for my nephew. I drove to the post office and packaged everything up for his birthday present in my car.

The woman from the library left the post office and walked up to her car, the one parked next to mine. She gave me a shy little wave, then got in and drove away. A simple, wordless exchange, but the smile behind her mask said it all. And all I had done was listen. 

This afternoon, I called my father-in-law's second wife, determined to let her know that Facebook isn't the best place for political discussions, and as such, things I had said were probably misinterpreted because it's so hard to gauge tone and sarcasm. I wanted to make it clear that it was important to me to have an open discussion on topics we disagreed about. We had a nice talk. Neither of us changed our mind, but we understand each other now. (I intend to make good on the promise to call whenever I see one of her posts I disagree with.)

I don't give kindness much thought. Perhaps I should.  

The funny thing about emotions is that they can change in an instant. A situation in which you feel no control can suddenly turn, leaving you refreshed and happy. 

I've spent the last few days talking to my family about my dad's condition. I've talked to my dad about his condition. In light of everything that has been shared, I've decided that I need to go back to Alaska and spend some time with him. My sister and her husband are leaving for Florida in a couple weeks. What better time to do it then? I won't be bringing my family so I can commit to spending time with my dad during the day when he'd otherwise be alone. We're going to interview him about his life. We're going to sort and label family pictures. We're going to get him caught up on his taxes. It seems a good solution and I feel lighter because of it. 

But, of course, as I indicated in my last entry, that means a whole lot of prep. The state of Alaska is requiring all this stuff before you travel into the state. So now, I have to get a ticket, but before that, I have to schedule a COVID test, but I can't take the test more than three days before I travel. I have to get the results in writing. I'll still have to quarantine when I get there...

These hoops and hurdles remind me of the security measures put in place after 9/11. It was a hassle, a bother to take off my shoes. To take out my laptop. To remove my jacket. To go through the metal detector. Then retrieve all of my stuff and find an empty bench to put it all back on. It's funny how a past event can remind you of a completely different situation. 

So, I've turned the corner into a better place (in one sense) and a worse place (in another). I am safe in my ignorance here - I have no way of knowing exactly how my dad is doing, but when I arrive, I will know. I will be confronted with the extent of his condition. I will have to face it head on because there will be no way to avoid it. What will I find? What will how I cope with it have to say about me? How will I come to terms with death and dying? What will happen to me as I watch my dad's health degrade?

I've almost died three times in my life, but dealing with a loved one dying is another beast entirely. There's an emotional attachment you don't expect. I know full well that death is a part of life and that we're all going to die, eventually. What's so hard is working through the emotions that come with the realization of this fact. 

My dad's health is not great. He is going to die. 

I can ignore it. I can pretend it won't happen. But the plain, disheartening truth is that someday he will die and I will miss that man's phone calls at 5am. I will miss his political rants. I will miss his mismatched clothing and his coffee-stained t-shirts. I will miss his history lessons in the car on our frequent road trips. Most of all, I will miss knowing that he'd be there whenever I needed him. 

Shit. I'm crying and I need to call my mom this morning to work out details regarding my flight. 

Get a grips. He's not dead yet. 

My sister called last night. She and her husband had been talking. They suggested I come up while Dad was still feisty and not, if things go badly, on death's door. Sound reasoning, because we still don't know the extent of the cancer. The doctors still don't have a specific treatment plan. And we don't know what will happen once he begins treatment. So many balls up in the air right now and none of us are experienced jugglers. 

Truth be told, I had the same thought, even though Dad told me there was no point. I want to be there to support him because he seems dead-set on going about it alone. It's not surprising - after all, who wants to see a loved one in pain because you are ill? Who wants their memory tainted by their progression into weakness? So, I understand his fears, but if things go wrong, I would never forgive myself for not being there. (And, if things go right, I'd just have some unexpected extra time with my dad.)

My mom still chooses to work even though she's retired. Both my sisters work, too, leaving Dad to fend for himself for most of the day. He still can, at this point in his diagnosis, so why not go and spend some time with him while he's reasonably well?

I do worry more, though, because I hear from my sister he isn't eating much - which worries my sister - and he refused a feeding tube - which worries my mom. I wonder why the delay, why my delay. Shouldn't I be there by now?

Enter COVID. Gods damn COVID. I have to go to the airport. I have to take a plane to get there. I have to sit on said plane for 8 hours. I will absolutely, no question, have to quarantine when I get there. I can't be the cause of my father's death, complications from COVID. I realize he's going to die eventually - days, weeks, months, years? - but it would be a horrible way to go. (Yes, if you have read my post about being an asshole, I recognize my hypocrisy. Maybe that makes me an even bigger asshole? Yes, probably, but the jury's still out.)

I'm calling him today to check up on him and I'll make my decision after that. I feel like someone has dumped a truck full of ping pong balls on me. Can someone fetch me a basket?

Last summer, I faced a moral crisis. I was convinced I was not a good person and the truth pained me. For days, I cried about it (hiding it as best I could from my husband and kids). I don't know if this particular downward spiral was the result of a darkness (mild depression?) or loneliness brought about by COVID - regardless of how it happened, I knew I had been fooling myself if I believed I was nice, kind, or good. 

You see, I had begun to question our obsession with germs and disease. We all want to live to be a healthy age (and even better if we can enjoy it), but what if some of us...shouldn't? I mean, what if some of us are meant to die? What if protecting ourselves and quarantining and wearing masks is simply delaying the inevitable: that some of us are just meant to die.

It's a terrible thing to say, I know, and a horrific opinion to have given most people in our country have lost a parent, friend, relative, or a child to COVID, often times from no fault of their own. Sometimes the most cautious people are the ones who end up in the hospital on a ventilator, without family or friends by their side. Certainly I wouldn't wish it on anyone, but it seemed I already had. 

Do you see the position I was in? I tried to reason it out. The world had so many people already that really, would She miss the 350,000 souls who were already gone? Maybe losing millions of people around the world to COVID isn't such a bad thing. Obviously, this logic is callous and cruel - even if the Earth doesn't miss the dead, someone who is still living will. 

I wanted so badly to believe it wasn't true, but the more I searched for situations which would contradict my position, the more I realized I was an asshole. My voice was louder than a Fox news anchor, my opinions free-flowing, my comments rude, and my judgement swift. I apologized for nothing.   

Therefore, I had to admit I was an asshole. It pained me to do so. I hated myself for being a rotten, evil person with such a disregard for human life. I did not want to be this person. I wanted to be a good person, a kind person, but I had a lot of learning to do. I didn't know where to start. 

Fast-forward many months, to Yule. We always make Yule Resolutions, instead of New Year's Resolutions. It feels more natural, somehow. Anyway, I have decided that I want to actively be less judgmental. I want to practice more patience instead of making snap comments. I want to listen more and talk less. It hasn't been easy (I'm finding myself falling into the same traps), but I'm committed to making the attempt. So, as of right now, I am still an asshole. And I am surprisingly okay with it. 

In light of the certification riot, it's no surprise that so many Conservatives are sensitive about what's going on right now. I liken it to being in a college classroom. You didn't read the materials for today, so whenever possible, you avoid eye contact with the teacher in the hopes they won't call on you. It's no different here: If I don't post on social media, then no one can call me out. (Quick! Scroll past the hundreds of pro-Trump posts they posted from January through the election. Ignore them. They aren't important.) 

I am reminded of the saying, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." For those of you who felt duped, horrified, and/or frightened by Trump and decided to vote (against party lines) for Biden, then I offer you a solid high-five. You recognized the necessity of getting that man out of office. For those of you who either solidly stood behind Trump or did not want to vote for the Democratic candidate, then you are an asshole. There is no other way to spin it. 

Politics is not about drawing a line in the sand and forcing people to choose a side. Politics is choosing a candidate who will represent your values. (A frightening thought, given the state of our last election - 70 million people chose a man who incites violence and hate at any given opportunity over a man who chose messages of unification.) 70 million people chose this disgusting display because they wanted red, not blue. That's what it's become in America.

I have a message for you: it's not about the color of your party. It's about stopping hate and injustice when it starts. You had a chance to think outside the box and yet you didn't. 

It might surprise you to learn I have voted Republican before. Yes, once. Just one time. And here's the deal: it's not the end of the world. In fact, your candidate might surprise you by speaking out, by supporting bills that are not in line with their party's values because it is the right thing to do. 

This was the Democratic Party's problem in 2016. They didn't want to throw their support behind Bernie. They should have. In all probability, he would have been elected instead of Trump. As an Independent, he might have been able to get more done with support from both parties. I know I would have voted for him. Maybe those 70 million who voted for Trump this time around would have, too. 

Anyway, I apologize, dear readers. This is not supposed to be a political blog. I don't know enough about politics to have anything worthwhile to say about the subject but I've blathered on and on about this because the hypocrisy makes me mad. Conservatives can't be upset about what happened at the Capitol and excuse Trump's behavior in the same breath. 

And they say Liberals are sensitive.  

It was Thanksgiving at a relative's house, a few years ago. I had started chatting with an older man seated next to me. He was in his late 70s, grey hair, the rough hands of a farmer. He asked me what I did. I replied, "I teach English to immigrants." He responded, "I guess we'd have different views on immigration, wouldn't we?" I said, "I guess we would."

Immigrants are demonized in America. People claim they're out to do any number of things to our country - steal our jobs, terrorize us, sell us drugs - but what it really boils down to is fear of the differences between us. They don't speak our language. They don't wear our clothing. They don't have our religion. They are not like us. 

I've been teaching English or tutoring students in English for many years now. I've listened to their stories and shared some of mine. We have a lot of the same views. We all want what's best for out families. We want security and comfort. We want good jobs with decent pay. We want education for our children. 

"Why are Americans so cold?" asked one of the women I tutor. She's from Brazil, tall, with long dark hair.

This was last year, before COVID. At the time, her question struck me as odd. "We're not cold," I said, "we just like having a buffer between us and other people." 

I started tutoring again in October because I needed to get out of my house. I needed to interact with other people (because if I'm going to get sick and die, I might as well do it for a good cause). 

I meet this woman at the library every Thursday night. I bring a newspaper article about a pressing topic. We read it aloud. We review vocabulary. Sometimes we discuss the article, sometimes we don't. We spend two hours conversing. By now, we know about each other's families and backgrounds. 

This past Thursday, we met as usual. We started talking about Christmas and New Year's - what we did, what we ate, whether or not our families were driving us crazy - when she started to cry. She explained she had hoped to go back to Brazil to visit her family but it had not happened. She expressed her loneliness at being so far from home and how even though she calls her family, they don't always have time to talk to her. 

That's when I started crying, too. Like her, my family is thousands of miles away. I don't always talk to them regularly. I hear about activities they do together. And I feel so incredibly distant from them it makes my heart hurt. 

We shared a moment, she and I, one in which encapsulated our similarities, not our differences. We felt each other's pain. She remarked that I "wasn't cold anymore" and I finally understood: Americans can't share stories with strangers, with immigrants, with people who are not like us.  

Americans purposely avoid interacting with people different from us. We choose not to put ourselves in uncomfortable positions. We choose not to learn a little bit more about the immigrant family down the street because if we did, we would discover their wants are our wants. We would discover they are living the same story and there's nothing to fear. 

One.

I did not write in this journal yesterday, but I think I have a pretty good excuse. Like most Americans, I was captivated by what was happening in Washington. The word "captivated" isn't accurate. It sounds much too pleasant, like I'm watching a sunrise or taking in a majestic view. I wasn't horrified, either, though - primarily because nothing that happened there yesterday truly surprised me. After four years of a nightmare president, enabled by his party and by a group of outspoken losers, I've found myself tired of being outraged. Instead, I'm fed up and sad. America is deeply broken in a way that I fear may never recover. The only thing left to do is leave the United States without looking back, but with a family, I can't really do that. So what's the solution? 

For the last four years, Congress has continued to display their impotence. Rather than renounce the hateful rhetoric four years ago, they chose to ignore it. They chose to remain divided by party lines. Donald Trump's win would have been the perfect opportunity to bridge that gap, to reach across the aisle and say, "We must be united in the face of fascism." 

But that did not happen. Instead, they looked the other way as this terrible man cultivated an atmosphere of hate in our country. With their silence, they fed the fire. With their silence, they enabled him. Now they wonder why this happened, how could it have happened. It was because of them, because they chose to do nothing about it. They were too cowardly to go against their party for fear of being black-listed, for fear of being voted out of office. 

What I'm asking them now is: was it worth it? Was giving this dictator-for-president free reign to do whatever and say whatever he wanted worth their integrity and dignity? 

When Congress reconvened last night, Republicans and Democrats talked about how they needed to come together. They voiced a common theme: how our broken country needed to be repaired. As I listened, I became angrier and angrier. Where the hell were all of you when it mattered? Why weren't you taking action when it counted? Why were so many Republicans so unwilling to say what the rest of us were thinking? Why did you not do anything four years ago when we could have so used a voice of reason within the Republican party? 

The American people needed to hear those words from Congress. We needed to see that Congress was actually doing something for us. Instead, Congress has opened the doors for all of the crazies in our country, leaving the rest of us bewildered and frustrated. They have failed us. It's going to take a lot of glue to fix this shattered mess. 

Two.

I was texted by my second cousin yesterday. She planned to make a cake for her granddaughter's first birthday and wanted to know if I had ever done anything with fondant. She called. We chatted. She left the conversation with two no-cook recipes for fondant and a little more knowledge than when she'd started. I left the conversation with the dawning realization that the extended family must view me as a baking goddess.  

Three. 

My husband and I finished "The Untitled Goose Game" last night. The game is silly - you're playing as geese with a hankering for some trouble - but delightful, too. I won't give away too much (as some of my readers may have sensitivities to spoilers), but I will say strutting around town as a goose, looking so fine and regal, was the best ending I've seen in a while.

I've been thinking a lot about tunnels. Yes, those tunnels: in one end and out the other. 

They seem to have a mystical quality to them, don't they? You enter through one end. The light within varies. (If you've ever been through a newer tunnel, you understand. These sorts of tunnels are so well-lit the mystery - and fun - is gone.) You never know exactly how long it's going to take you. If you hold your breath, will you run out of air before exiting through the other side? There's a certain delight when you return to the sunlight and the moment you are able to breathe again. 

Funnily enough, tunnels are a lot like life. 

There's a situation, a problem needing a solution. A catalyst. A moment you are jump-started to action. 

You enter the tunnel. You face the problem, seek the solution. You begin to accept where you are and why you are there. You search for ways to solve the problem. You have choices. (You always have a choice, even when the possibilities seem few.)   

At some point, after enough time has passed, enough tears have been shed, and enough work has been done, you leave the tunnel. You are reminded (once again) that things are not as bad as they seem. 

Patience. 

You never know how long you'll be under the mountain, slowly making your way through, but the reason you're there is always the same. You are there to learn how to let go of situations you can't control and cultivate the situations you can. You are there to be patient. 

I am not good at being patient. I am not good at just being. I am so often focused on the doing: laundry, dishes, cooking - pressured by the unbearable guilt of why haven't I written anything today? - quilting, reading to my kids, ignoring Projects A and B and C (all the way to Z), and so much more. There's always something to do. 

I used to do yoga twice a week, back before COVID, when I went to the gym regularly. I loved the community, the teachers. I loved the way it made me feel strong and present and purposeful. I was not doing yoga there. I was being. 

I'd forgotten that feeling until a few days ago when everyone was still asleep (a rare occurrence in my house as everyone is an early riser). I dusted off my mat, found a video on YouTube. By the end of my practice, I was in Shavasana, my body cool and hot at the same time, tears flowing down my cheeks. So this was what it was like to BE! 

I don't want to lose that feeling again, but I don't know how to find the space to keep practicing. How can I kick everyone out of the house when they have no where to go? How early must I wake up to find a house full of peace? How can I possibly BE when there's so much to DO?

Many of us hope that 2021 would be a game changer, like turning on a light switch. Out with 2020, bring on 2021! Sadly, I can say with certainty that if the beginning of this year is any indication, then 2021 will be no better than last year.

Like nearly everyone (I say nearly because surely there were some people out there who didn't mind quarantining and Zoom meetings and wearing pajamas on the bottom and a nice blouse on top), I found myself toppled from a pretty good place to a fucking nightmare. I was not alone, but so lonely. I didn't go to the gym. I couldn't travel. I didn't volunteer. I found myself trapped to the endless responsibilities of mom, teacher, personal assistant, cook, chauffeur, and so on. I did (and still do) insane amounts of dishes and am the only person in the house who prescribes to the "clean as you go" mentality. To escape, I played video games instead of doing something productive like writing or quilting. I read about people who were actually thankful, grateful even, that their families were close. Not me. I like my family at a distance. I appreciate them more when they are. 

But then, I got the news. My dad, who lives thousands of miles away (along with the rest of my immediate family), has a malignant tumor of the esophagus. My mom told me yesterday, even though she had known for at least five days. Five fucking days passed before anyone bothered to tell me. Maybe they didn't want me to worry, they didn't want to spoil my New Year's - I don't know. Maybe they didn't mean it to be a slight or think that it would upset me as much as it does. All I do know is that I feel so, so isolated and alone.

And maybe it is my fault that I didn't call or write as much as I should have. Maybe it is my fault that I didn't take the time to make that effort. But I did try. I played online video games with my family. I called on holidays. I even called my aunts (but none called me back). I organized an RPG game for my kids, my nieces, and nephew. But still, no one bothered to tell me. 

As much as this post seems to be a pity party, it isn't. Since I found out about my dad's condition last night, I've been trying to process how to move forward, rationally and intentionally. On my morning walk with my husband, under the branches caked with hoarfrost, I thought about the message here. 

So what did flipping the light switch reveal?

1. My dad's condition is not a death sentence. They need to conduct more tests and with treatment, he could live for a long time yet. I have to be patient and I must be involved even from thousands of miles away.

2. My mom did not mean to hurt me when she blathered on about how much fun she had on Christmas with the rest of the family. She was trying to share her own joy with me. 

3. My family are good people. My husband is supportive, my kids are smart and (fairly) well adjusted. We are bound to have some kinks within the household. And that's okay. We will work through them.

4. Finally, with the quarantine and my dad's condition, I need to remind myself that I may not like what's happening around me, I may not want what's happening to be happening, but I need to accept that it is going to happen regardless and then GO FORWARD. 

I need to go forward. 

I have neglected this blog. For a long time, it was like a journal - a mostly happy journal - where I posted all the fun things I did, the places I traveled, and reflections on life. Now, however, I am finding myself needing it again, but in a different capacity. Writing is a way for me to work through the world around me. I write fiction, science fiction specifically, but I need to return to the source. In order to progress, I need to return to this blog. 

The only questions I will be asking, at least for the next little while - are: how am I feeling? What am I working through? What have I observed? What can I change? What can't I change? What can I accept? What can I not accept? What can I do? 

In light of this realization, I am hoping to write more here. A little bit of honesty to combat the fantasy I usually concoct. Maybe not everyday (I can't lock myself in like that), but often enough. 

PS - I apologize in advance, dear reader, if you wanted a cute story about my kids or a recipe or a motivating word. I don't have any to spare and besides, it would be a bit hypocritical. I acknowledge those stories are nicer than my blog journey at the present. There's a time and a place for them, and they will return, rest assured. Until then, please consider reading - for no other reason that to enjoy the madness that has become my life.